Three years, one month, and five days
by ameliagianna
Summary: A compilation of scenes from the life of the new Bishop family.
1. T-minus nineteen weeks and three days

Three years, one month and five days (1)

T-minus nineteen weeks and three days.

"Olivia, you ready?"

Peter's distant voice inundates her thought process. She is shaken from her trance and looks up from the untied laces still in her hands, trying to remember how to make a simple knot.

His footsteps draw closer and finally cross the threshold of her bedroom.

"'Livia, are you okay?" His voice is laced with concern and it makes her stomach muscles constrict.

"Yeah, I'm fi-"

"Remember what we talked about?" he cuts her off, and she drops her head slightly in defeat.

"I was just thinking, is all. I'm okay, Peter."

The floor creaks next to her as his knee falls upon the hardwood surface. "Did that thought make you forget how to tie your shoes?" he jokes, gently pushing her hands away so he can finish the knot.

She sits up slightly and shrugs, dragging the back of her hand across her lips.

He pats the tip of her shoe when he's done and leans back on his knee. His smile falls when he meets her eyes.

"Seriously, Liv, tell me what's going on."

"I don't-" she starts, but this time she cuts herself off and captures her lower lip in her teeth. "I'm a little scared."

A look of fear crosses his own eye, but his voice remains steady and warm. "Scared of what?"

"Not of," she tells him. "_For_. I'm scared for this baby."

Her hands come to rest possessively over her minute baby bump, only just starting to show even though she's nearly twenty weeks along. And then moments later, they're gone and running through her long hair.

"Why are you scared?" he asks quietly, because even though they're in her apartment alone, they've begun to whisper.

For a moment, he thinks she's speaking quietly so the baby won't hear.

"I'm afraid that I won't be able to protect our child."

"Liv..." he starts, but she places the tips of her fingers gently over his lips.

"Peter, we risk our lives every day. Whether it's chasing a bad guy or trying to save worlds, we're not invincible. What if we get hurt, or worse? Our baby would be alone. And I don't think I can handle that."

Her fingers move slowly from his lips to his cheek, and he leans into her touch.

"I won't let that happen," he whispers. The words fuel her, swell in her chest and give her hope. But the worry lingers.

She sighs. "But anything can-"

"No," he insists, "I won't let it happen. And I know you won't either."

Her forehead falls softly against his, and the contact just solidifies the statement into her even deeper. She tilts to place her lips against his, and he reaches up to cradle her face as she is his.

"It'll be you, me, and this baby, no matter what. I promise."

And in that moment, she believes it with all of her being.


	2. T-minus ten weeks and six days

T-minus ten weeks and six days.

* * *

"Oof," Olivia says one day in the car. She's driving, with Peter scanning the contents of a file in the passenger seat.

He looks up. "What?"

"Nothing," Olivia tells him. "Baby's kickin' again."

He chuckles, and turns back to the file. Something catches his eye and he says, "Hey, listen to this: _'Patient has developed an oversensitivity to the emotions of other people around him. He may act irrationally or compulsively to try and either help or stop how that person is feeling._' It definitely sounds like he's-"

He's cut off by another "Oof" from Olivia, but this time her hand goes to her stomach and she closes her eyes momentarily.

"Hey, you okay?" Peter asks.

Olivia laughs, "It's like she's doing a gymnastics event in there," and is focused on the road once again.

"Maybe you should pull over," Peter murmurs. "I can drive us the rest of the way."

"No," she says adamantly. "I am fine to drive. You just keep reading." She flashes him a small smile before turning back to the road.

They drive in silence for a few minutes with Peter pretending to read and Olivia pretending to think he's reading.

After another several minutes, Peter gives up the façade and just watches her.

Slowly, she unbuttons her jacket with one hand. The fabric falls open thankfully, no longer tightly secured across her swollen belly.

She reaches over and, without looking from the road, takes Peter's hand and places against the right side of her abdomen. She presses her hand tight over his and the flesh and fabric pull under his fingers.

For several seconds, nothing happens, until there's a tap against his palm. Then another, then many more as if on purpose.

"She's a kicker," Olivia says quietly, but not quite a whisper.

"Yeah," Peter agrees with a grin, waiting for his daughter's tap-tap-tapping against his hand again.

* * *

**A/N: Etta's a'kicking! And I don't know what that 'case file' was…just filler from the Fringe corner of my brain, I suppose. It sounds a little like Olivia to me. I originally wrote it to sound exactly like Olivia, with the abusive step-father and dead mother, but I changed it to be a little more vague. Sorry, but don't expect me to expand on it, I suck at case details. Reviews are my favorite!**


	3. T-minus thirty-two hours and ten minutes

**T-minus thirty two hours and ten minutes.**

* * *

"Peter, I _really_ don't want to argue about this right now," she says, gun drawn and clearing the next room.

"Neither do I, Olivia, but you need to go home. You should be resting," he counters, shoulder-checking a corner, before holstering his gun. "All clear," he calls.

"Here, too," she replies from several rooms away.

Both sets of footsteps are heavy until they meet in the middle of a large living room, scattered with dusty furniture. She stops opposite him, hands on her hips and her pregnant belly protruding far from her body. She can no longer wear her crisp, button-up, white work shirts, so she settles for a white long-sleeve cotton tee and an unzipped black sweater. Peter follows her defensive pose with his own, arms crossed stubbornly across his leather jacket.

"Peter, I'm fine. I'm not due for another week!" she insists, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

"Yes, but Walter said you should take a break and relax," he sighs.

Olivia closes her eyes and shakes her head. Her hand goes up, her thumb and first finger pressing against the bridge of her nose. "I feel better working. I have no patience for sitting around on my butt and being useless. And once we close up this case, I promise I will take a break but for now, please, just let me do what I do best." She opens her eyes, pleading.

Peter sighs again, and throws his hands up in defeat.

"Thank you," she murmurs, turning her attention from him to a photo frame on the table closest to her.

When she picks it up, she runs her fingers through the dust over the glass, and two young, smiling faces stare up at her. A pair of twin girls, surrounded by pink walls and pink dresses and pink hair clips.

Olivia smiles back at them, and imagines little laughs echoing through the halls of the house they're standing in.

She doesn't notice Peter's footfalls, softer now, leading him to a mantle where more pictures reside. He brushes dust away on two of them without picking them up. "We're definitely in the right place," he says, "but this house looks like it hasn't been lived in for several years.

Her reverie is broken when the front door's lock clicks and it creakingly swings open. Peter's over to her in seconds, pulling her gently by the arm around a corner into the mouth of a hallway.

One hand of his is on her forearm, the other silently removing his gun from its place on his hip. Olivia, still reeling from her trance, clutches the frame tight in her hands.

Her brain finally clicks back, and she reaches for her gun.

Heavier footsteps lead in to the living room and stop, just about where she was standing. There's a soft scrape, as if he turned on his heel.

The picture, she realizes, he's noticed it's missing.

The suspect stomps quickly over to the mantle and is most probably discovering Peter's fingerprints in the layer of dust.

Olivia jabs Peter's ribcage lightly and juts her chin forward, telling him to go.

He nods, and steps forward.

"Put your hands where I can see them," he says carefully.

Olivia steps out behind him and sees the suspect's shoulders tense. His hands come up slowly, a set of keys in one and the other wrapped tightly around something small and indistinguishable.

"Drop them," she orders, and he drops the keys but not what's in his other hand.

"The other hand, too," she adds.

"I don't think you want that," the man says, rotating toward them slowly. "If I drop this, we'll all be exposed."

The item is a glass vial, filled with some kind of blue powder. He studies Olivia a moment, then smirks in recognition. "And I don't think you'd be all too happy about that."

The bile rises in her throat, and she can feel Peter tense next to her.

"Place the vial on the floor, very slowly," Peter demands.

Still grinning, the man starts to lower himself onto his haunches. He squats down to the dark hardwood and places the vial on the floor before slowly standing back up.

"Now step away from it," Peter says.

The man steps to his left, and then again until he's five or six feet away from the vial. But this puts him that much closer to Peter and Olivia.

"Kneel down on the ground and place your hands behind your back," Olivia says, pulling a pair of silver handcuffs from her belt and handing them to Peter.

The man follows the order once again, and Olivia can't help but feel apprehensive of his obedience.

Peter's got the first bracelet around his left wrist when the man says, "It's too late," he says, staring directly at Olivia. "Capturing me will not stop what has already been set in motion." His smile makes Olivia sick to her stomach, and her baby kicks her in response.

"Well, that's where you're wrong," Olivia tells him. "We've already got your partners in custody, and we have the rest of your weapon."

His face falls, but Olivia's contentment is short-lived when she feels a stab in her side.

She hunches over, hands on her stomach. "Peter," she groans.

He's over to her in an instant, a hand on her back. "What is it, Liv, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," she whispers through her teeth. The stabbing is repetitive and mangling, and she can hardly stand.

"You need to get her to a hospital," their suspect chimes in, "because she's about to have a baby."

Peter looks back at him, and he follows the man's eyes to Olivia's legs. A dark stain on her jeans spreads down her thighs and continues toward her knees.

"Oh my god," Peter whispers, and Olivia sucks in a final sharp breath before exhaling slowly and straightening up.

"Peter, call Broyles for backup."

"Liv, we gotta get you out of here-"

"_Call Broyles first_," she orders through her teeth, and all he can do is nod.

* * *

**A/N: I admit, I don't know if this is really what going into labor feels like, so any falsities are my own. And the mysterious blue powder is a throwback to 3x12, with the gross bone-disintegrating and (off-topic) Cortexiphanic mind reader. I'm assuming Olivia didn't handle this case already on her own in the Amber-verse pre-Peter. Review!**


	4. One hour and thirteen minutes

**One hour and thirteen minutes.**

* * *

The first time Peter holds his daughter, he cries.

At first they are tears of joy, but then he sees the similarities between her face and another's.

And he cries. He doesn't weep or sob, the tears simply roll down his cheeks, silent and unrestrained.

The tiny form in the crook of his elbow wiggles, stretching and testing out her new space. Olivia's asleep in her hospital bed, free of the sight of his torment. But while Peter watches the baby, she stirs, almost as if she had sensed something was wrong with him.

He angles himself away from her slightly, but she still sees him.

A tear rolls down to the tip of his nose, and falls on his daughter's tiny forehead. He wipes it away with a swipe of his thumb.

Olivia's hand is on his arm then, gentle and tugging him back towards her.

He complies, makes his way back to her side. She smiles at the sight of their child, running a finger along the swell of her baby's cheek.

When she looks up and finds his face wet, she reaches up and does the same to him. "What's wrong?" she asks quietly.

"She's so beautiful," he whispers. "And she...she looks just like _him_."

"Like who?"

He takes a deep breath. He hadn't wanted her to find out this way, and he should have told her so long ago. It sits in the back of his mind every day.

"My son," he admits, almost inaudibly.

Her hands tenses on his face but does not retreat.

"'It must be difficult, being a father'," he repeats. "September told me that, before the Machine. I assumed he meant Walter."

His daughter smacks her lips tiredly, and another tear falls onto her blanket.

"When I went into his mind, he showed me. A child, a baby boy, and he told me he was mine. He said he was not meant to exist, that he was born to the wrong Olivia Dunham."

Olivia doesn't speak.

"His name was Henry. I never even knew he existed until he really didn't."

Olivia takes a deep breath. "Why didn't you tell me?" She's not angry, not at all. She sounds sad.

"I didn't know how to, and I didn't know how you'd react. I was afraid it would make you change your mind."

She laughs lightly, but not at him. "You pretend like you don't know me at all."

He sighs, closes his eyes. He presses a kiss into their daughter's forehead.

"This is our daughter," she says, hand caressing his cheek again. "And she's not going anywhere."

He nods, and finally meets her eyes.

"Henry," she repeats. She remembers a cab driver from another universe in another timeline, a man who believed her when she didn't even believe herself. "It's a good name."

He laughs, blending with a sob.

And that is how their beautiful Henrietta is named.

* * *

**A/N: This is my way of dealing with several things:**

** -The Henry/Henrietta name thing**

** -September's little hidden message in 3x10 (even though we didn't really know yet, of course he knew).**

** -Olivia reacting to the news of Henry, and the possible origin of the name.**

** -Peter actually reacting to Henry, which we don't see for more than a few seconds. I assume there was some off-screen crying post-4x14, but whatever.**

**And, as promised, Polivetta FEELS. Reviews=more feels!**


	5. One week and one day

**One week and one day.**

* * *

Olivia loves her daughter inherently.

But even with her years of practice in insomnia, never could she have prepared for _this_.

While Peter handles their little miracle with an innate ease that she only expected, Olivia feels as if she's never doing anything right.

When Etta is fussy, only Peter can get her to stop crying. Peter is the only one who can ever get her to sleep. The only thing Olivia was decent at was breastfeeding.

The late night feedings were the worst. After two nights, Olivia had Peter move Etta's crib and Olivia's rocking chair into their bedroom. "It's only temporary," she told him. And until the next night, she had almost believed it.

But it was hard. Only seven nights had passed, and both parents were practically delusional with sleep deprivation.

But the eighth night changed everything.

* * *

"She's asleep," Peter whispers to her around seven o'clock. He walks slowly over to the bassinet in the living room and lowers the small being into it. He tucks a blanket under her right side and drapes it over her little bare feet.

With a soft caress of her cherub cheek, he steps away and toward Olivia in the kitchen. "Old takeout or Walter's lasagna?"

"Uh, is there a third option?" she laughed, yawning in the middle of her sentence.

"Hmm," he says as he opens the refrigerator. "Eggs."

"With bacon and toast?"

He turns back to the fridge and rummages for a minute before he looks at her and smiles. "You got yourself a deal."

Just as Peter is pulling the egg carton and pack of bacon out of the fridge, Etta starts to whimper and babble.

He places them on the counter and starts in her direction. Olivia watches, and then holds out her hand.

"Leave her," Olivia tells him quietly. "I want to try something."

He puts up his hands and takes a step back, eyes intent on her.

Olivia walks into the living room, taking a longer path around the couch to avoid the bassinet, and goes to the entertainment center. She rifles through a stack of CDs before selecting one and placing it in the DVD player.

She turns down the dial and the music starts, a piano's melody low and flowing.

Almost instant is their baby's response, her fussing dying into a faint cooing before finally, she quiets. Olivia walks over and checks inside the bassinet.

"It worked," she whispers, eyes on the sleeping form of Etta.

"How did you come up with that?" Peter asks softly.

Olivia walks back over, smirking as she rounds the couch again. "Don't underestimate me, Bishop."

He chuckles and pulls out a frying pan.

"Actually," she whispers into his ear from behind, her arm sliding around his waist as he stands at the stove, "I went on a hunch that she takes mostly after her daddy, music tastes included."

"She doesn't take entirely after me," he replies, turning around to face her. "And there's a tiny head of blonde hair over there that proves it."

Olivia smiles softly, diverting her eyes to the floor. "She may have my hair, or my nose, or something, but she's her daddy's little girl through and through. I can't even get her to nap," she adds, looking sad.

"'Livia," he whispers, and brings a hand to her chin and tilts her up towards him. "You are an amazing mother. Cut yourself some slack, she's only a week old."

Olivia smiles and nods. He places a quick kiss on her lips before turning back to the stove. "Besides, you don't have worry about whether or not she likes you for fifteen years or so."

Olivia bubbly laugh rings out beside him as she retrieves a loaf of bread to make the toast.

Once all the food is cooking, Olivia sighs and leans back against the kitchen counter.

The song changes, and something sounding familiar floods out of the stereo in the adjoining room.

Peter turns to her and, without a word, holds out his hand. After a dubious look, she takes it and he spins her into his chest. He spins her out and wraps his arms securely around her waist.

"Why, Peter Bishop, I didn't take you for a dancer," she murmurs.

"I'm not, really. But dancing with you sounded appealing." He smirks, and she laughs.

"I'm flattered," she says, sliding a hand over the nape of his neck. The tip of her first finger plays with the short hairs of the bottom of his hairline.

He turns them a few times before stopping. "Do you remember this song?" he asks slowly, nervously.

She smiles. "_Is it 'Feelings'_?" she quotes playfully.

He smiles. Then it falls. "Hard to believe it never happened. Technically," he adds.

"But it did," Olivia counters. "You experienced it, didn't you? Just because no one else can corroborate it doesn't mean it never happened."

"Well, you can," he whispers.

"Sort of," she says quietly.

He's about to say something when the song ends and Etta starts fussing again.

"I got her," Olivia says. "She's got to be hungry by now."

She pads over to the bassinet and picks up the baby gently in her arms before carrying her to the couch and settling in.

Peter watches them for a moment before turning back to finish cooking their dinner.

* * *

He's already set the table and he's just finished serving the food when she returns to the kitchen. She crosses her arms over her chest carefully, wincing when she brushes herself wrong.

"You okay?" Peter asks.

"Yeah," she tells him, sitting down at the table and carefully unwrapping her arms again. "Just tender."

He nods. "Get it while it's hot," he says before placing a dish in the sink and taking his own seat at the table. The music still plays softly in the background, and several songs have replayed since Olivia had put in the CD.

"Olivia, is there something wrong?" Peter asks as she takes her final bite.

She swallows suddenly, hand flying over her mouth when she coughs. "Why do you ask?" she chokes out from behind her slender fingers.

He sighs. "What you said, about Etta being a daddy's girl, and about our conversation in the bar that night. Just, the way you sounded was almost..."

"Almost _what_?" she snaps, hand dropping to her lap.

"Sad," he finishes. "Do these things make you upset?"

Her eyes drop to her empty plate, and beneath the table she wrings at her hands. "I don't know," she answers. "Maybe?"

"Why?" he asks quietly.

"Even though I remember everything about our relationship in the before, it doesn't change the fact that here I never actually experienced it. I just remember these things as if I had. But you, you have experienced them, lived them out. It just feels as if, maybe, you were gipped."

"_I_ was gipped?" he asks incredulously. "How?"

"Because even though I feel as if I'm that same Olivia you shared it with, it doesn't change the fact that-maybe-I'm not."

Peter sighs, drops his fork onto his plate, folds his hands in front of him and drops his head-almost as if in prayer. "'Livia..." he whispers.

After only a few moments, he sits up suddenly and slides off his chair and onto his knees next to Olivia's chair. He untangles her fingers in her lap and twines them with his own.

"_You_ are my Olivia. My only Olivia. _You_ are the woman that dragged me halfway across the world to release my committed father from a mental institution."

She smiles in spite of herself, dropping her head.

"_You_ are the woman I fell in love with, who crossed a universe to save me and tell me that I belong with you. And _you_ are the woman that I had that conversation with in that bar."

She sighs. "But, Peter-"

"No," he cuts her off, insisting. "And whether or not you have doubts as to that truth, I don't."

Her hand untwists from his and rests lightly upon his cheek. She leans in and rests her forehead upon his. "Okay," she whispers.

He kisses her, long and hard.

"Now the other thing," he says, and she tenses. "The Etta thing."

"You connect with her so well," she says, "and I don't know if I can."

"Liv, you're a new mom. Everything doesn't just snap into place, you have to work at it."

"But it did for you," she adds quietly.

He pauses, then lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Peter, I'm not complaining. I love Etta, she's my _daughter_, for crying out loud."

And just then, as if by some divine and rueful force, Etta began to scream.

Peter let go of Olivia's hand and leaned back on his heels. "You take her," he commands softly.

Olivia watches him a moment, and then expressionlessly stands and approaches the bassinet.

She reaches in and lifts her wailing, wriggling baby into her arms. "Hey," she whispers to her softly. "It's okay, Mommy's here."

Shifting the baby's position down securely in her arms, Olivia begins to rock her. Her crying doesn't stop.

Peter gets up slowly and walks over. Olivia looks up at him, her eyes both saying _I-told-you-so_ and begging for help.

He reaches out but doesn't take the baby. Instead, he positions her more upright in Olivia's arms with her tiny little head in the crook of Olivia's bare collarbone.

With the contact, Etta calms considerably. Her little hands roam, finding a few strands of Olivia's golden hair and batting at them clumsily.

Olivia looks from the baby up to Peter and smiles. "Thanks," she whispers.

He nods, and says, "Give it time. It will get easier."

* * *

That night, when Olivia's woken by Etta's screams, she gathers her daughter into her arms, settles into her rocking chair and nurses her.

When she's finished, she lays her daughter's head against her sternum, bare and unobstructed by her camisole.

Etta falls asleep there, her little fingernails gently scratching at her mother's right breast.

Olivia closes her eyes and sighs.

And then she sleeps, too.

* * *

**A/N: Ahhhhh 6B feels…..And S.4 confusion stuff. I don't know, you guys. I have weird ways of coping with all that information (or lack thereof). The whole reboot thing really threw me for a loop. I'm getting it, plot-wise, but there's so much that we'll never know about from before or even how Olivia and Peter dealt with all this as a couple. Grr, writers. I love you, but seriously. Just because you write for a confusing show doesn't mean you should make it worse. Okay, rant over—sorry. Longest chapter so far in this series, I think. Tell me what you liked (or didn't) below. Please?**


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